Touch
by SymphonyinA
Summary: Erik insisted on a large bed to spare Christine his touch, but she always seems to roll over to his side while she sleeps. E/C, one-shot, Leroux


Erik's eyes snapped open, but not from a nightmare.

Christine had found her way to his side of the bed again. He had made certain the bed was _exceptionally_ large so that she would not mind sleeping at his side like a wife. When she closed her eyes, he wanted her to forget he was even there.

Each night, though, for over a week now, she seemed to roll over until she was quite pressed against his side. He did not mind, of course, but he knew she would if she ever found out where she spent most of the night.

Perhaps he ought to wake her. She might catch a chill, being so close to him. Most nights he simply pushed her back to her side- just a little- so that she would not be disgusted when she woke.

Now, however, he faltered. Her breath was so warm against his shoulder. He could reach out and brush a curl from the corner of her mouth, if he so desired. She always slept with her mouth open, and often snored rather loudly for a woman, but he preferred it that way. He wanted to know she was there, through sight, sound, and feeling.

She gave a little moan of discontent and nuzzled up against his arm. He choked on a gasp.

A normal husband and wife would fall asleep in an embrace. He wanted that desperately, but he would never subject his dear Christine to such a thing. She was very kind to him, and had said she loved him, but he could not believe it. It was impossible.

She must have thought he would have harmed the boy had she not accepted his thinly-veiled proposal. After all, she had not been overjoyed on her wedding day, but certainly not sad. It was all a facade, he assumed, but it was better than nothing. He had had his fill of nothing.

"Erik," she whispered out.

His breath caught again. Was she awake?

Her arms wrapped around his. Terrified that she might wake and see herself like this, in such an intimate position, he slid her back to her side of the bed. Then he rose and went to the window for a bit of cool air.

"Erik?" she said groggily as he unlatched the window. "Are you having nightmares again?"

"No, my love," he pulled up the frame. "Go back to your dreaming."

The bedsheets rustled. He continued staring out the window, though he caught her striped socks out of the corner of his eye.

"Are you cold?" she offered. "Do you mind if I hold your hand?"

"Why would I mind?" he breathed.

She slid her fingers in between his and held tight. His palm was cold and clammy.

"Are you sure it wasn't a nightmare?" she asked.

"No... no nightmares."

He inhaled the cool air from the open window. She ran her thumb across his palm.

"Why won't you look at me?" she whispered. "It's dark, and even if it wasn't, I don't mind your face."

He turned to her. She was so beautiful in the dark, almost as much as in the light. Her blue eyes shone like candles.

She opened her mouth to say something, though she faltered in uncertainty.

"Do you mind if I...?"

She reached up, ever so slowly, towards his face. He did not back away, not even flinch, so she cupped her hand against his hollow cheek. He shuddered, though, at the contact, and she pulled away as if burned.

"Forgive me," she said, turning from him. "I forget it must hurt you."

"Hurt me?" he asked. "What would make you think that?"

"I've seen your scars," she said, lowering her gaze to his forearms, the only part of his body she had ever seen unclothed. He wore a nightshirt now, but she could make out the warped skin beneath. "When a person has that many marks, I expect any touch would hurt."

"Nothing you could do would hurt, my dear."

"Promise me."

"I..." He glanced down, then his gaze wandered up to meet hers as he appeared to shrink before her. "I promise."

"Thank you." Her voice was so quiet. It was always so sure. "Do you want me to touch you?"

 _More than anything_ , he begged, but he only managed out a frail, "Yes."

"Then is this all right?"

She reached her arms out to wrap around his thin waist, and once she was settled there, she leaned in to rest her head against his ribcage. His heart flailed against her ear. He stood there numbly, arms outstretched from surprise. She caught his wrists with gentle care and brought them around her shoulders. He exhaled shakily.

It was good she could not see his face. His breaths were shallow, though, so she could sense his tears.

"It's all right," she whispered.

She parted from him and reached up to cup his face in her hands. His knees gave out, and there he was, on the floor again, clinging to her nightgown and weeping like a child.

"Oh, Erik," she sighed mournfully.

He felt her arms around him again. With utmost care, she helped him to his feet and brought him to sit on the bed with her.

"Do you need a handkerchief?" she asked.

He bowed his head into her lap as sobs ripped through him. She ran her fingers through his sparse hair. They were soft as down, and after each stroke, his muscles relaxed until he was almost a puddle in her lap.

His sobs subsided into quiet sniffles. He was silently cursing himself for ruining her dress with his tears, and he did not want to lift his head for her to see the mess he had made. She would be repulsed. He was repulsive.

"Do you want to come to bed now?" she whispered.

Her hands were still running across his scalp. No, he did not want to go to bed, but she needed to sleep. He had kept her awake, curse him!

He sat up and moved to lie down. She smiled gently.

"I'll join you in a moment," she told him.

She rose and went over to the oak dresser where all her nightgowns were tucked away. He averted his eyes as she brought the one he had ruined up over her head, leaving her clothed in only a thin slip. His eyes stayed low, though, only wandering up to her calves, and then her knee, damn him.

To his relief, she slipped into the other nightgown before his eyes betrayed him. This one of hers had quite a deal more lace, and perhaps was not as comfortable. Erik cursed himself again.

He watched her striped-socks approach the bed. She climbed up on her side and slid over to his.

"Will you hold me?" she asked.

"No, no, you can sleep," he replied, now realizing she must want something. That was why she was being so kind to him. She did not want to touch him at all, why, she was making herself miserable for some end!

To his surprise, her face fell.

"If that is what you want," she said.

It was the furthest from.

"What is it you want, my dear?" he offered wearily.

"I don't understand. I want you to hold me. That's what I want."

"Only that?"

"For tonight, yes... and every night after."

Her eyes were clear. There did not appear to be any sign of a lie in her expression, and her words were so gentle and quiet... perhaps she was being truthful. Besides, he would gladly give her anything she wanted tomorrow if she asked. There was no need to avoid that end.

"Then," he said, extending his arms out ever so slightly, "if you want to."

She slid to his side as he relaxed into the mattress. Once he seemed comfortable, she eased her head onto his chest and exhaled a sigh. His hands came to rest, gingerly, on her curls. She shut her eyes.

Her sleep was no longer restless after that night.


End file.
